Sunday, 9 June 2013

One night in a Homestay, in Northern Laos

Soon, very soon, I'll put the links to Bombs and Butterflies on the side bar of this blog, and remind you of the various places you can find it.

But, while we're waiting for Kindle to cook it, here are two extracts, both set in the Homestay in a village near Luang Namtha. 'Nick' is our guide, and 'Lucy' one of the women I met on a bus.

A Homestay opportunity is
one reason I’ve chosen an organised trip to the north of Laos. Finding a home to take you
in, when travelling independently, has always seemed a little risky. This way I
can spend a night in a village, catch a glimpse of rural life, and hopefully
meet local people who will regale me with their stories. I have my pen and
notebook ready.

There
is a village walk planned, but first we must leave our luggage. . . I slip my
shoes off at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps, and begin to clamber,
steadily, upwards. Immediately a girl of about fourteen is beside me, taking my
elbow. She smiles, steers me on upwards and into a large room. She nods, in a
way that asks if I’m all right. She takes the weight off my pack as I slip it
off. I feel a bit like an old person being helped across the road. Her motives
are kind – and I can see her mother, behind her, grinning her approval at every
step. And so I relax any grumpiness at the suggestion that I might need such
assistance and accept it with good grace.

‘What
is your name?’ she asks.

‘My
name is Jo; what is your name?’

It
seems her English lessons don’t run to replying, for her next question is, ‘How
old are you?’

‘Sixty-two,’
I tell her.

She
gasps; her eyes widen. She says something to her mother, who walks across and
peers into my eyes. She calls down to a man standing below the house, and he
runs up the steps to inspect me. The lass asks my age again, as if trying to
make sure she heard right the first time. It is clear I should be dead by now.

I
am, I recognise, an exhibit. But it doesn’t matter. In many ways it is an
advantage; maybe I can use it as a way into conversations, find out how it
feels to be really old here. Questions pile up in my head.

But
there is no one to ask. The lass who helps me has exhausted her limited
English. No one else in the family speaks a word. I am treated like a queen
from a foreign land, when I would rather be able to put my feet up by their
fire (metaphorically speaking) and swap stories.

Later, we gather round a camp fire to drink, Lao-style. A small plastic cup is filled with beer and the first
person in the circle swigs it down. The same cup is refilled, passed to the
second person – and on round the circle. As each bottle is emptied another is
opened. And if the crate is finished, someone buys another. Maya has a hygienic
hissy fit and will not drink. But the rest of us put Western germ-qualms to the
back of our minds. Well, it’s that, or no beer. And it’s a convivial way to
drink – though the pressure to throw it down, when you know that the person
next to you is already salivating, is strong.

The
Lao are very proud of their beer – known as Beerlao.
It is made from rice, and is heavier than the hop variety. In fact it is so
heavy it is like drinking food. Complan without the vitamins. Or any other
goodness, for that matter. And it goes down particularly well round a camp
fire.

Children
hover behind us – they are never far away. Lucy and I play: we sing Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, and
then Lucy stands up to show them I’m A
Little Teapot, to universal applause. I flush with the joy of playing with
children; and can’t resist that smug shiver which comes with making a child
giggle.

It
is your turn, we say to them, expecting Laotian rhythms and exotic
finger-clicking. The children, led by one boy who has clearly done this many
times before, clears a space; even the lads quieten to watch them. They sort
themselves into a line; the boy on the end nods and, on his count of ‘one, two,
three…’ they burst out with ‘Hey,
Macarena’, wiggle their bottoms, wave their arms, sing the song and dance
in a display many a party-goer would be proud of. Their spectacle complete, they
puff, then look at Lucy and me as if to say, ‘Top that!’